Love on the Rocks
by SophBraxt
Summary: Spencer and her best friend Hayley live in the perfect apartment in New York, but when their landlord increases rent without much warning, they're forced to find a third roommate. Sparks and conflict ensue.
1. Chapter 1

**Feedback**: Definitely! Lemme know what you're thinkin' :]  
**Pairing**: Spashley...  
**Description**: AU  
**Summary**: Spencer and Hayley have been best friends since high school. Fresh out of college, they're pursuing their respective careers and sharing an surprisingly affordable apartment in Manhattan. At least, the rent had been affordable, before the landlord gave them an early Christmas present in the form of a pretty steep rent increase. Now they've got to find a new roommate so they can afford to keep their swanky apartment.  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own 'em. Just taking them out for a bit. I'll _probably_ have them back by curfew...

Love on the Rocks

Chapter 1

----

I'm pissed.

"You're sure we have to do this?" I ask Hayley—my roommate—in an irritated tone.

Hayley nods. "Unless you want to pay almost twice as much rent on your own. Rent is absolutely nuts in this city. There's no way we could afford to keep the apartment. We'd have to move.

Hayley's right, I know. We won't leave the apartment. It's perfect. I also know that neither of us can afford the new monthly payment the landlord had surprised us with. We're both 22, right out of college, in New York City, trying to 'make it'.

"It'll be fine, Spence. You know we hardly use the third bedroom anyway," Hayley says sipping her caramel macciato with a double shot of something-or-other.

She is, once again, right, though. We live in a spacious three bedroom apartment downtown. The only time the third bedroom is actually used is when one of Hayley's boyfriend's friends is too drunk to actually get himself home and has to crash on the inflatable mattress. (Which is always conveniently stored in the closet, something like a drunk man's Murphy bed.)

Still, I'm not at all excited about this whole 'let somebody we don't even know live with us,' thing.

"What if..." I try to think of one of the seemingly endless number of things that could be very, very wrong with our new 'roomie'. "What if she-"

"Spencer, don't even start."

"You don't agree that Bon Jovi every night would be annoying?" Annoying is an understatement, I'm sure.

"Nobody listens to Bon Jovi, Spence."

"Have you met Clay?"

"Your brother's only a few steps above pocket protectors and coke bottle glasses." She says, rolling her eyes. "He doesn't count. And I doubt that even he is that...nerdy."

"Guess you haven't seen his calculator tie," I mumble, then fall silent, scanning th coffee shop for whoever it is we're supposed to be meeting.

"What's her name?" I ask, yawning.

"Ashley. Same as it was the first six times you asked me."

"Well, Ashley's late." I look at the clock on the wall, irked that we've been waiting for almost 10 minutes. This is totally a waste of time.

"Chill out, Spence. She'll be here."

As if on cue, a small brunette enters the coffee shop, looking somewhat frazzled. She appears frustrated as she runs a hand through her curly brown hair, looking around the room frantically, probably afraid we'd just given up on her. Something that, in my opinion, we should've done five minutes ago.

"That her?" I ask indifferently, nodding in the girl's general direction.

"Yes. Now, be civil." Hayley narrows her eyes for emphasis.

I respond with an uninspired eye roll, a personal favorite of mine as far as silent communication goes.

"Ashley!" Hayley waves her arm in the air as she tries to capture Ashley's attention.

In my opinion, she looks completely and utterly moronic. I'd tell her so, too, if a relieved smile hadn't just spread across Ashley's face as she makes her way towards the table. I'll tell her later, when she can't kick me under the table.

"You look like a moron, Hales."

Or not. I would kick myself inwardly for blurting something like that out in public, but I'm just not that kind of person.

Hayley glares at me, and there's a sharp pain in my shin, courtesy of her over-priced shoe-clad foot.

"Mother fucker," I grumble, as if I didn't know it was coming.

"Nice to meet you, too," says a voice to my right.

Ashley.

Great. She's funny too.

I don't necessarily mean to glare at her. But judging from the look on her face, she gets the message. At least she's a little bit perceptive. Getting her to stay out of my shouldn't be too much of a problem.

"Hi, I'm Hayley," Hayley smiles, extending her hand.

"Ashley," she grins as she takes Hayley's hand, shaking it.

"And this bucket o' sunshine is Spencer," Hayley says for me, and I give a half-assed wave in her general direction.

Ashley nods slightly in acknowledgment, matching my half-hearted demeanor.

For a moment, I'm a little shocked. Where does she get off, half-assing introductions, when she's moving into my apartment?

Okay, our apartment, but still, I'm irritated. She should be begging for acceptance or something. I'm the one that's got a secure living space. Whether or not I choose to half-ass anything—or anyone—is entirely my decision. I could pay at least the next two months' rent by myself, anyway. I don't answer to anybody (with the exception of Hayley and a few suits at the studio), but there's no way I'm letting her stay in my [our] apartment. Nobody nods in acknowledgment to me.

"Sit, sit," Hayley shoves my copy of the New York Times onto the over-sized chair behind her.

"Hey! I was reading that!" I say, my irritation level rising as Ashley sits down.

"Spencer, looking at the pictures doesn't constitute 'reading' it." Hayley shakes her head and turns her attention towards Ashley.

So what if I like the pictures in the Arts section? I had planned on reading the movie reviews...I think.

"So, we live in a three bedroom on 8th. Rent would be $1200 a month. Between the three of us, that'll cover the landlord's new price." Hayley was always one to jump right into the gory details.

"Nice neighborhood. And that sounds fine. How much for groceries? 250? 300?" Ashley asks nonchalantly.

Hayley and I look at each other for a moment. We hadn't really considered groceries. We'd always just switched back and forth on food duty. With three of us, though, that probably isn't practical.

"$300 a month?" Hayley questions. I don't think Ashley catches the slightly shocked tone in her voice.

"Yeah, is that alright?" Ashley bites her lip, looking uncertain.

Hayley's surprise dissipates rather quickly. "Sure." I don't think she knows what else to say.

Expensive beer, here I come.

--------------

I swear that stepping out into the street and in front of a fast-moving taxi has never sound so tempting.

They're (Ashley and Hayley) discussing the musical styling of 'Danger Davies.' I hate that guy. And his music's awful.

"His 1982 record was definitely his best," Hayley says confidently.

Ashley shakes her head, though. "Armed and Dangerous was good, but have you heard The Cradle Chronicles? The highlight of his career."

"'85, right?"

"Closer to '86, but I'll give it to you." Ashley grins.

As if the '80's had been so interesting. I roll my eyes.

Hayley laughs, "I don't think I've ever met another long-time Danger fan before."

Ashley looks thoughtful for a moment. "'Long-time fan' is almost an understatement," she laughs.

"Oh, do tell. How long have you been on the EnDangered List?"

God her jokes are lame.

"I guess you could say I've been a fan of the guy since birth.

Uh, yeah right. As if she came into the world wailing the opening notes to one of his [too] many Billboard Hits.

Hayley laughs as she pushes through the revolving door to our building.

"Whoa. Swanky place," Ashley says appreciatively as she looks around the marble-floored lobby, her surprise evident when she sees the large stone fountain. As if she though we might live in a really expensive tenement. Admittedly, I was dressed in a pair of too-big, fading hospital scrubs (courtesy of Hayley, who was interning at a big-time New York Hospital) and one of my torn sweatshirts from high school. But just because I don't dress up for a forced meeting with a roommate who's arrival I'm dreading doesn't mean I'm living in a box under the overpass.

Less than half an hour in and I already kind of find her extremely annoying. True, I found almost everyone—aside from Hayley a select few of our friends--'annoying', but the thought of living with this Danger Davies-loving stranger (okay, anyone, really) irritated me.

"Spence isn't a Danger fan," Hayley casually presses the button for the elevator. "In fact, she's closer to an anti-Danger activist."

Ashley looks at me curiously. "Why's that?" she continues to look at me.

I kind of want to tell her to quit the staring, but I decide there'll be plenty of time for open hostility and passive aggressive remarks after she moves in.

I shrug instead. "I think his music's contrived and commercial under the guise of being deep and revolutionary," I say nonchalantly. "He's a rock star. There's a certain point at which he can't be credited for writing anything remotely realistic. By 2001, he hadn't lived the 'normal life' outside of 'rock 'n' roll' for 30 years. But the name of track 7 on his record from that year? Normal Life, which was so cliché. It was all about living like 'piece of a larger puzzle'? Please. The guy had been nothing but the center of attention. It was hypocritical for him to even pretend that he knew what walking around public places and feeling small and overshadowed was like. Almost 35 years after his first release, the record went platinum, just like 6 others before it." I decide to keep my deep satisfaction at the fact that after 36 years, he was well and truly washed-up to myself.

Ashley's silent for a moment as we step onto the elevator, which has finally arrived. She looks thoughtful as she says, "You know a lot about someone you don't like. Release dates, song titles, record sales. It's impressive," she smirks.

I think she's patronizing me.

I'm probably just being paranoid....

Probably not.

Hayley jumps in, trying to thwart the brewing confrontation. "Spence knows a lot about things she likes to argue over. Which is pretty much everything."

I push the button for the 28th floor silently, then watch as the floors tick by quickly on the digital readout thing. 5...6...

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she's looking at me again.

13...14...

I probably have something on my face, but you'd think she could at least have the decency to look somewhere else.

19...20...

Okay, her eyes haven't moved and it's starting to feel ridiculous.

27...28...

I rush out as the metal doors slide open, not bothering to wait before I unlock the apartment door. I drop my keys into the bowl on the table by the door, looking in the mirror that hangs over it. There's nothing on my face.

It's at that point I figure that she's just kind of a spaz.

"Home Sweet Home," I hear Hayley say proudly as she and Ashley enter the apartment behind me. It 's a nice apartment, and she has a right to be proud, as she did most all of the decorating.

Gallery-worthy lights hang from the ceiling, bathing the entire living room in a soft glow as they focus on several paintings that hang on the walls, courtesy of our mutual friend, Chelsea Lewis. The carpet is white and plush, and it meets the boards of the dark, hardwood floor seamlessly, creating a sophisticated contrast. Our couch is white, too, which is less of a bitch to keep clean than I thought It would be, and pretty comfortable too. The TV is hung from the wall closest to the door, and the wires to our various stereos and DVD players are strategically hidden. Only one thing really seems out of place: my over-sized leather chair and the scarred wooden end table that stands next to it. Okay, so that's two things, smartass. Still, their beaten and worn look doesn't exactly mesh with the contemporary white of the rest of the room. But, I had insisted that they hold a place of high esteem next to the over-priced couch, and Hayley hadn't argued, probably thinking it was best not to challenge me.

Ashley looks around the apartment in what looks to be wide-eyed wonderment, which I, once again, find a little insulting.

"It's perfect," she breathes, grinning.

Great...

"When can you move in?" Hayley asks, leaning against the wall casually.

Ashley looks thoughtful for a moment.

"Is tomorrow too soon?"


	2. Movin' on Up

A/N: Hellooo, all. So I just want to thank you all for the feedback you left, you're all beyond amazing. Seriously, you guys make my day :) Alright, on with Chapter 2. Feel free to leave a little love in the review section.

Love on the Rocks

Chapter Two

---

Chapter 2:

"Is tomorrow too soon?" She bites her lip self-consciously.

Yes. Yes it is 'too soon'. Who just springs that on somebody? Tomorrow? Seriously?

"I totally understand if it is," she continues. "I didn't mean to spring that on you." She laughs nervously, which I find annoying. She shakes her head, "Forget it, whenever's good for you is go-"

Hayley cuts her off, chuckling. "Tomorrow's great."

Ashley grins, looking excited and relieved.

I look at Hayley like she's a mutant turtle that's watched too many Jet Li movies.

-----

It's been 10 minutes since Ashley left, and I'm trying to savor my last few hours of pre-Ashley apartment time. It's difficult though, because I know I totally should've given her the inquisition when I had the chance. Still, I don't have any real desire to know much of anything about her. In fact, I just want her to stay out of the way.

I jump onto the counter and look at Hayley with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. "Why's she looking for a new apartment? Didn't you say she already lived in the city? Is she—"

Hayley cuts me off, probably guessing I'm going to say something at least mildly offensive. She always says that I'm pretty much just missing the filter between my brain and my mouth. "She says she just wants a change, Spence. Weren't you listening when we were talking about that stuff?"

'That stuff,' being her general background, I assume. And she already knows that was a stupid question.

"She's just tired of her old place and thought that maybe she'd trying living with other people. You know, instead of being alone all the time."

Great, so she isn't just a roomie. She's looking to be best buddies!

I shudder inwardly.

Hayley rolls her at my reaction. "Spence, do you have to be mean to everybody?" She just looks at me for a moment, her expression one of resignation.

"I'm not 'mean' to everybody," I say defensively. I'm not, either. Mean is such an elementary word. Sure, I'm cynical, pretty sarcastic, and somewhat short-tempered. But it's not as if I wander around stealing people's blocks.

"Spence, you all but verbally bitch-slapped the girl at Starbucks because you thought she looked at you funny!" Hayley looks at me incredulously. "She told you to 'Have a nice day,' and you demanded to speak to her manager!"

"She was totally patronizing me!"

"Spencer, you think everyone's patronizing you! She smiled at you, and you practically filed a formal complaint!" She sighs, moving to the living room and busying herself with a stack of mail as she shakes her head.

I follow her, "Okay, so maybe I have a slight tendency to overreact. That doesn't make me 'mean'," I put air quotes around her juvenile word choice.

"Slight tendency?!" She rolls her eyes, resigned. "Just…don't scare her out of the apartment, okay? We need this, and she's normal."

I grumble my consent and shuffle toward the couch before plopping onto it unenthusiastically. As I flip through the channels silently, I'm thinking I should probably be offended by the fact that my roommate and best friend feels the need to warm me about my hostility and thinks that I have the ability to drive somebody from our apartment with words and attitude alone.

But she's probably right.

--------

"Spencer, wake up."

At three in the morning? I think not.

"Spencer, now."

I open one eye to see the clock, which reads 10:30 a.m., and a pretty irritated-looking Hayley standing over my bed.

Not really the way I wanted to wake up.

"Five more minutes," I groan, turning over.

"Nope," she pulls the blankets off of my bed in one swift, cruel motion.

"I hate you," I grumble as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, yawning. Okay, I don't hate her. But I do hate mornings. In a big way.

"Your coffee's ready," Hayley leaves the room. She's pretty used to this morning routine. In fact, she's pretty much my human alarm clock. But it's Saturday, and this whole early wake-up call is wholly unnecessary. Still, I stand up, rubbing my eyes, which are still closed. I shuffle out of my bedroom into the living room, looking a little like a female Frankenstein, I'm sure.

"Hales, where's my coffee?" I run my hand along the wall as I walk blindly, though it's pretty unnecessary, as we've lived in this apartment for almost 3 years.

"She and the coffee are both in the kitchen," a voice to my left says. It's definitely not Hayley, but it's not unfamiliar.

I open my eyes quickly to see Ashley sitting on the couch, a cup (one of Hayley's) of coffee in her hand. She smiles in a friendly-but-infuriating manner that makes me roll my eyes as I walk past her, into said kitchen.

Hayley's busy trying to fix the coffee maker (which never works properly anyway. I gave up on it months ago) with her back to me. I do what I firmly believe anyone else would've done in my position. I deliver a decisive slap to the back of her head, Jet Li-style.

"Ow!" She turns around to face me, her hand on her skull. "What the hell was that for?"

I gesture angrily at my attire; a pair of short, blue plaid boxers and an old tank top.

"Maybe you should get dressed," Hayley shrugs.

"No shit? Really? Is that what I should do?" I laugh humorlessly. "Here I thought it was customary to walk around half-naked in the presence of strangers!" I hiss.

"She's not a stranger, Spence," Hayley goes back to the coffee maker. "She lives here." Hayley turns around to face me again, smirking like she usually does when she's about to say something really irritating. "She's our new roomie."

And with one word, she kind of makes me want to do something drastic. Like, I don't know, trip her. Which is not something I feel the need to do very often. Once a day, tops.

Okay, maybe twice.

Fine, three times, but who's counting? Anyway it's not like I'd actually do it.

Hayley rolls her eyes at my reaction. "Go get some clothes on. We've got some people coming over to help her move in." She looks at the clock. "And they'll be here in 10," with that, she moves past me into the living room, sitting on the couch with Ashley, a fresh cup of coffee in hand.

I grab my mug from the counter (knowing that Hayley has already added just the right amount of cream) and move quickly back to my bedroom, careful to avoid making eye contact with 'The Roomie'.

Quickly, I change into a pair of old, tattered jeans and my faded gray NYU t-shirt. Shoving the door open, I trudge to my chair, plopping into it unenthusiastically as I set my coffee on the end table next to it.

Hayley points to the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly wordlessly, taking another sip of her own coffee before she turns back to Ashley. I don't particularly care what they're talking about, so I grab the magazine, putting my bare feet on the coffee table as I start reading my favorite part: the last page.

"Spence, get your feet off of the table."

I lower my magazine from where it rested on my bent knees to look at Hayley disbelievingly. 1) It's half my coffee table, and she's never cared enough to reprimand me like an uptight grandmother before, and 2) She knows I hate being interrupted when I'm reading the Writer's Column.

"No," I say simply, choosing to avoid outright confrontation so early in the morning. Defiance is plenty before noon, I figure, as I go back to my article.

Hayley gives me a look that says something along the lines of, 'Now, you barbarian.'

I give her a look that says, 'Fuck off,' loud and clear.

She glares, opening her mouth to say something before a buzz interrupts her. Narrowing her eyes, she rises and moves to the speaker. "Brandon?"

"On a good day," comes Brandon Weaver's smartass reply, crackling over the aging intercom.

Hayley pushes the button, unlocking the door as Ashley stands, setting her mug on the other end of the table. Moments later, there's an energetic knock on the door.

Pulling the door open, Hayley greets Brandon warmly. "Glad you could be here by ten," she says with a forced smile. Okay maybe her welcome isn't all that warm.

Brandon shrugs it off. "Should've said 9:30 if you really meant 10," he steps into the apartment, heading for the coffee. "Hey, Spence," he says.

"Mornin' B," I say, turning to the movie reviews to confirm my suspicion that this week's obnoxious slapstick comedy is going to blow big time, but still manage to make outrageous sales at the box office.

"How's the studio?" he asks from the kitchen.

"Not too bad," I shrug. "How's the label?"

"Alive and well," he grins as he comes back into the living room.

"Brandon, this is Ashley. Ashley, Brandon," Hayley gestures vaguely as she makes introductions. "The truck's downstairs, parked illegally, so let's get a move on." With that, Hayley walks out of the apartment, Ashley and Brandon close behind.

I have a brief (very brief) moment of guilt, thinking I should probably help, but it passes pretty quickly as I take another sip of my coffee and return to the article.

It's not long before Hayley comes back, a large box in her hands. " So you're just going to sit there?"

"Yep. That's the plan," I turn the page to the music reviews.

Hayley sets down the box by the couch, then attempts to level me with her gaze.

It's not working.

"Spence, come on, we need your help."

I close the magazine impatiently, keeping my place with my thumb. "You need my help?" I smirk.

Hayley rolls her eyes but gives unenthusiastically. "Yes. We need your help. Because you're so great. Your intelligence, prowess, and general aura of awesomeness are unmatched here on Earth."

"And…?"

"And us common folk require your degree of superiority."

"Now that's what I like to hear."

--------------------------


	3. Panty Fairy

Chapter 3

I can only describe the way I followed Hayley downstairs as 'trudging'.

"I don't understand why we can't just use monopoly money," I say as we walk out the doors and onto the sidewalk. "Donnie's a landlord, not a brain surgeon." I add a mental note to thank hi parents—should I ever come into contact with them—for not pushing their son into the medical field. The world is certainly a better (and generally healthier) place because of it.

Brand takes a box from the back of the truck, his face contorting into an expression of intense concentration. He was probably trying to hide how difficult it was for him to lift a thirty pound box.

"Too heavy, B?" I smirk as he shuffles towards the building. I admit, making fun of skinny (115 pounds after a big meal) music nerds isn't exactly a shining example of character. But the fact that I've known the guy since second grade makes the whole public ridicule thing all but unavoidable.

"Fuck off, Spencer," he grumbles as he passes.

Hayley emerges from the building as Brandon pushes his way through the door, with much difficulty. "Grab a box," Hayley instructs, pointing to the truck authoritatively. Rolling my eyes, I pick up a cardboard container labeled "UNDERWEAR" in large, black letters. I'm sure I'm grinning what Hayley calls my "warning grin." As in, "warning, I'm about to do or say something that will offend or upset you a big way." She has her back turned at the moment, allowing me to sneak past her and hide said grin. I hum a tune (out of key, of course) as I enter the building through the revolving door, the picture of nonchalance, I'm sure. Because most people hum "Karma Chameleon" while moving and doing nothing even remotely mischievous. Right.

As I walk past the doorman, I shoot him a look that says "You're about to see me do something incredibly odd and possibly even morally questionable. Just ignore it and pretend as though nothing's wrong." He nods his understanding. You could say that he's been around the block a few times.

Shooting him a grateful smirk, I continue towards the elevator. Casually, I shift the box under my arm and pretend not to notice as a pair of yellow-and-red polka dotted underwear tumbles from it. Another pair happens to make its way onto the marble floor by the fountain. That one is quickly followed by a similar pair that takes a spill about 20 feet away, in front of the elevator doors.

"Whoops," I utter quietly as the elevator doors close behind me. Grinning, I drop one more pair onto the floor of the elevator. Looking down, I catch a glimpse of the design. Superman. How mature.

I press the button for floor 14, tapping my foot impatiently. I know, I know. Our apartment is on the 28th floor. Bear with me. Checking to make sure the hallway is empty, I amble out of the elevator, but not before I set the box in front of the sensors on the metal doors, making sure that they won't close. Nonchalantly, I drop a few more pairs of various size, shape, and color onto the carpeted hallway in front of a few choice doors. When I'm satisfied with my handiwork, I pick up the box and step back inside the elevator, punching the button for floor 22.

This time I make my way to the end of the hall, with approximately 4 pairs of underwear and 2 embarrassingly lacy bras in hand. I do my best not to snicker as I push the door to the stairs open, and drop 3 pairs of underwear over the railing, watching as they fall down the open stairwell to several of the floors below. They all land a significant distance away from one another. Sometimes, I even surprise myself with how great I am. To finish the job, I drape the bras over the railing and toss the underwear onto a nearby stair before returning to the elevator. I put an end to my futile attempt to control my laughter as I step onto floor 28. I deposit all but the very last pair of underwear onto the floor and various doorknobs in our hallway, and briefly, I entertain the thought that maybe this was going just a little too far. But I dismiss it quickly. "Too" and "Far" are definitely not words I use together often.

Upon entering the apartment, I see Brandon attempting to look busy. He turns and looks over his shoulder and seeing that it's me, abandons his effort.

"This whole moving business blows," he grumbles.

I'm about to voice my agreement when I'm interrupted by a knock on the door. Pulling it open, I see Ashley on the other side, looking slightly ticked off. When she doesn't say anything, I tilt my head to the side a little. "What's wrong, Ashley?" I ask innocently.

Wordlessly, she gestures towards the various pairs of underwear littering the hallway.

I make a valiant effort to hide my grin as I poke my head out into the hall to admire my work. "You left breadcrumbs, I see?" I raise an eyebrow in her direction. "Our apartment isn't quite that hard to find, though," I allow myself to laugh as she holds her hand up to reveal the underwear from the lobby and the elevator.

She takes a step closer to me, her eyes dancing with a mild anger. "Spencer don't-,"

"Oh, wow," I pretend to look at a clock inside. "Look at the time. We'd better be getting a move on." I inadvertently reestablish eye contact as I edge my way past her in the tight quarters of the doorframe. Whistling, I begin my walk to the elevator. But something occurs to me, and I stop and turn around, grinning.

"Hey, Ashley?"

Ashley pivots slowly to face me, running a frustrated hand through her curly brown hair.

"You may want to check the 14th floor. And the stairwell." I wink and give her a small wave before turning to continue on my way to the elevator. Pretending to be nice is a lot easier this way.

***

We've been moving The Roomie's shit for hours, and I'm totally ready to just plop onto the couch with some good ol' Golden Girls reruns.

Yeah, I'm serious. The Golden Girls are the definition of "badass".

As I carry one of the few remaining boxes through our propped-open door, I cast a longing glance at said couch. I don't think it's ever looked as good as it does right now.

I drop the box in my arms onto the now-large pile haphazardly and make a beeline for those criminally soft cushions.

"I second that," Brandon grumbles as I groan when my body hits the sofa.

"I hate moving," my reply is muffled by the pillow that my face is currently buried in.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I vaguely register the sound of the door opening, and seconds later there's a bit of pain and a large weight on my lower back. "Ow," I mutter half-heartedly. I don't even have to make an attempt to look to know that Hayley's sitting on me. "Get off."

"Nah," Hayley responds, patting my back. "I'm good."

I roll my eyes as I wriggle out from under her.

"Best way to clear a couch," Hayley grins victoriously as I move to my chair, glaring at her.

Ashley sits down next to Hayley on the couch, looking down at her hands with forced interest.

The room falls into silence. And its not one of those comfortable silences. It's the kind of silence that makes you feel like you're in a chokehold.

Hayley's finally the one to break it. "So…," she bites her lip. It's pretty obvious she doesn't have anything else to say. "Spinach," she finishes arbitrarily.

I throw an odd look in her direction. "Spinach?"

She nods, taking a sip from her bottle of water before placing it back onto the coffee table. "Spinach."

Without warning, we both break into a fit of laughter. I realize that it isn't funny. Not at all, actually. But it's just one of those "Spencer and Hayley things". It's the type of thing we usually laugh at for a reason that nobody else would understand. That's how we've always been. It's sort of like everyone else is on the outside of an inside joke that doesn't really exist. I think the inside joke is just the world that Hayley and I inhabit. It's probably full of rabbits with pocket watches and shrinking houses and such.

It isn't long before Brandon and Ashley start laughing with us, joining our entirely unfounded giggle fit. For a moment, I want to glare at Ashley for trying to become a part of something that's ours, not hers. I want to tell her off for intruding when she's only known us for 2 days.

But I don't. My back hurts too much for confrontation.

---


	4. Breakin' a Sweat, Brooklyn Style

Hello all! I'm sorry its been kind of a long time. Unfortunately, the frequency of updates will slow down a bit (not a TON, but a bit) from here on out. All of the updates through chapter 5 are done, but the rest is still a baby, pooping in its diapers as it formulates in my head. But here is Chapter 4! I hope you enjoy it.

Also: Thank you SO so much for your feedback. It definitely makes my day when I come home and see that people are liking this story. Just know that everything you write is very much appreciated! I love it :)

But without further adieu,

Chapter 4

----------

My sides hurt.

And it's Hayley's fault.

Slimy green vegetables aren't funny. But somehow, when she mentions them, they become inexplicably hilarious. Which is exactly why I'm blaming her for the shooting pain tearing through my sides.

The laughter has died down some, and we're in that awkward aftershock phase. You know, when everyone in the room stops laughing with a collective, appreciative sigh. Which, in turn, triggers another, albeit shorter, fit of laughter.

"Okay, we have to stop," Brandon cuts in, trying in vain to stifle his laughter. "I've gone my entire life without a six pack, and this feels like a work out. If I leave this apartment with abs of steel, my rep is trash." He chortles. "Trash. Absolute trash."

"He's right." Hayley nods her agreement. "His Halo team will probably disown him."

"Halo 3," Brandon corrects.

"Whatever," Hayley dismisses his comment. "Hey, B, you know that Ash works at a label too, right? I sense common ground." She proceeds to sit back on the couch, as though her work is done.

"You work at a label?" Ashley asks Brandon, doing a bang-up job of feigning interest. Unless, of course, she's actually interested, which I doubt.

"Yeah. Alt+F4 Records."

"No way!" Ashley moves to the edge of her seat, grinning excitedly. "I love the Fidos! You guys just set up their gig down at Edge, right?"

I honestly have no idea what they're talking about, but I'm going to assume "the Fidos" is a band, because I think Edge is one of the skeezy clubs across town."

Brandon nods. "You know the Fidos?"

Ashley nods enthusiastically. "I loved them. By the end of their set, I was swooning like a fangirl at her first concert."

Brandon laughs. "You work for a label, too, you said?"

Ashley nods again. "RedCab."

"No way! So you were the other label that they were negotiating with?" Brandon asks, smirking.

"Guilty. But they're probably better off, to be honest. RedCab is too...mainstream. The Fidos are best-kept-secret material. Mainstream would trash their style."

Brandon nods in agreement, his expression showing that he's at least a little impressed by Ashley's comment. "RedCab did some great stuff with the Laurens, though. They've got a great sound. Halfway between some kind of Miles Davis jazz and the original rebellion rock."

"Exactly! It's like the Clash at half tempo, with a saxophone and a piano."

Brandon laughs, concurring.

I watch the exchange, a little lost, but mostly just surprised that somebody who works for what sounds like a respectable record label would listen to Danger Davies.

"That's exactly what I said when I heard them!" Ashley exclaims, still talking about the Laurens, whoever they are. Personally, all I can picture are polo shirts and guitars. "I told Donnie that not signing them wasn't an option."

"So you're an AR Rep, then?" Brandon asks.

Ashley nods. "What do you do at Alt+F4?"

"Producing. Mostly mixing, I guess." Brandon shrugs. "I make sure everything that goes onto the album sounds its best. I'm the Resident Music Nerd and Technician."

Ashley laughs, "If I knew anything about the mixers and all of the equipment in the booth, I'd love to do that."

I glance at Hayley, who's eyes have glazed over. I'm willing to bet she's lost too.

I kick her shin, and she catches on pretty quickly.

"Pizza?" she suggests.

Brandon and Ashley halt their conversation, which has deteriorated into a debate on the artistic merit of what sounds like every band that's ever put out a song in the last decade or four.

"Great. What do you want on it, Ash?" Hayley asks, picking up the phone. She's been friends with Brandon and I long enough to know exactly how we like our pizza. Hayley and Brandon usually split a pizza, with hamburger, olives, onions, mushrooms, and extra cheese. I've had Canadian Bacon and olives on my pizza since Hayley and I met four or five lifetimes ago.

"I don't care. Whatever you're getting is fine," she smiles.

Lies. Everybody says they don't care, but you know they do. It's annoying. Just come out with it.

"No way," Hayley shakes her head. She's pretty serious when it comes to pizza. "What's your absolute favorite kind of pizza?"

She's probably going to say something completely idiotic and disgusting, which will undoubtedly show something incredibly undesirable about her personality. At which point we'll regret letting her move in. I can see it now, she's going to pick something repulsive, like-

"Canadian Bacon and olives."

No way.

Someone must have told her. Maybe it was Hayley. She's probably still mad about that time-

"Seriously?" Hayley laughs. "That's what Spence likes too!"

Okay, it wasn't Hayley. She seems genuinely surprised, and I know she doesn't act anywhere near that well.

Brandon wouldn't dare. He knows what I'd do to him.

Ashley's a stalker. That's all there is to it.

Hayley dials the number for Pete's Pizza, which is about 2 blocks away. We've eaten there since we moved in. It's a hole in the wall that barely meets health code and passes inspections, and we love it. It's the best pizza in town, and if anyone utters so much as a syllable's worth of a dissenting opinion, he or she should probably be knocked on his or her ass.

"Great. Thanks Paul. See you in fifteen!" Hayley ends the call enthusiastically. "We're going to go pick up the pizza in a bit. Paulie sends his love, Spence," Hayley winks. She's convinced that the notion of Paul and I having a "torrid love affair", as she calls it, is absolutely hilarious. Allow me to point out that Paul, Pete's brother, is approximately 65 years of age, almost entirely toothless, and frequently recounts his tales of the "glory days" when he was one of the Wright brothers. Though he's crazier than a shithouse rat, he makes the most delicious pizza this side of Jupiter.

I roll my eyes at Hayley, "Wonderful."

Ashley looks confused, "Who's Paul?" she asks. "Your boyfriend?" She looks at me with an expression I can only describe as 'surprise'. I feel like I should be at least mildly offended.

Hayley snorts, "Spencer doesn't have a boyfriend." She says it as though its the most obvious thing in the world. True, I haven't dated much. At least, not recently. My last boyfriend was enough to inspire me to take a sabbatical from the dating world. He was a borderline addict when it came to the Sopranos. I think he actually cried when he heard it was cancelled. The fact that he called his uncle "Vito" always weirded me out a little bit too. Especially because his uncle's name is Neville. After the 8th weekend-long marathon in a row ("To commemorate the best show ever to grace our television sets!" he'd say, "C'mon, Spence! Show some respect! At least grieve properly!") I had to end it. The entire apartment smelled of his failed attempts at cannoli's for a month.

I glare at Hayley for making the notion of my having a boyfriend so utterly ridiculous. My personal life is none of Ashley's business. Hayley recovers quickly, "Not that Spencer couldn't date. I mean, look at her! She's hot shit. Plus, she snores really quietly and she loses bets all the time. She's, like, the perfect girlfriend. Especially if the stakes of the bet involve laundry duties," she grins.

She thinks she's helping. Really, she does. Ashley's smirking, obviously not quite sure what to say. She's very obviously amused by Hayley though.

Hayley looks confused for a minute. It's the look she gets on her face when she knows she's supposed to be doing something, but has no idea what it is. Brandon notices it too. "Pizza?" he offers.

"Right!" I'm surprised there isn't an actual lightbulb above her head. "Let's go get the pizza!"

The walk to Pete's is only about 4 blocks, which is convenient because they don't deliver, but really inconvenient when you have food poisoning as a direct result of Hayley's boyfriend's stupid suggestion to "sample the cuisine" in the area and want to move about as much as you want to gouge your own eyeballs out with soccer cleats.

Hayley grabs her purse from the table by the door. "You're coming, right Ash?" Ash? Seriously? A nickname already? It makes her sound like some really undesirable result of smoking a cigarette. I'll talk to Hayley about giving The Roomie hideous nicknames after she brings back the pizza.

Ashley stands up from the couch, "Sure, why not?" she shrugs and moves to follow Brandon and Hayley.

"C'mon Spence, up and at 'em," Hayley tries to coax me into tagging along. So long as The Roomie's part of the parade, I'll be at home.

"No thanks," I shake my head, putting my feet up on the coffee table. "I'm beat. I'll be here when you guys get back. Have fun, though!" I put on my most convincing fake smile and wave as they exit the apartment. Even my most convincing fake smile is undoubtedly not all too convincing. But Hayley was very obviously more focused on pizza than the legitimacy of my excuse to stay in the apartment.

I figure the round trip will take them at least 20 minutes.

After they've gone, I stand up, trying to decide which plan to piss Ashley off I should put into action first. Operation Brooklyn Style is probably the easiest, and my best bet. I move into the kitchen, promptly opening the silverware drawer, remove all of the handful of forks, and put them in an empty cereal box that's sitting by the rest the stuff for recycling. Smirking at my own brilliance, I put the box back in the cupboard with the rest of the cereal.

Hayley, Brandon, and I don't use forks to eat our pizza. To do so would be utterly sacrilegious. Granted, Hayley used to eat with a fork, but after I balked at and reprimanded her appropriately before instructing her in the fine art of eating Brooklyn style pizza, she gave up her cutlery-driven eating habits.

I'm not really in the mood to give the Roomie the fork luxury for even a small amount of time. Either she learns to eat properly now, or she'll suffer quietly in messy, saucy misery. I can just tell by looking at her that she's a fork kind of girl, too. This should be interesting.

15 minutes before they return. Plenty of time to do some more damage. I'm momentarily at a loss for further ways to cause a relative amount of mayhem, when I remember the little sidewalk fire crackers I got awhile ago for the 4th of July. You know, the ones you throw on the sidewalk and make a nice "pop!"ing sound?

Rifling through my sock drawer, I grab the small box and make my way to the bathroom. I'm definitely grateful that there are no men living in this apartment when I lift up the seat on the toilet. I'll openly admit that I'm struggling to keep a smirk off of my face as I place a few of the poppers around the toilet bowl before lowering the seat. Whoever uses the loo next is in for a real treat.

I know it won't be Hayley. She has a bladder like a tank. Its unnatural. Brandon's not an issue, so its a pretty safe bet that Ashley will have a poppin' good time in the near future.

10 minutes.

Just enough time to put on the finishing touches and make a drink run at the Trader Joe's across the street.

I dash into the kitchen to grab the habanero sauce before returning to the bathroom. Picking up Ashley's toothbrush (nice to see she's made herself at home already), I pour a few small drops onto the bristles. It doesn't show, but it will definitely have her sweating.

Interesting thought.

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	5. Grey Hour

A/N: Hello Everyone! I know, it's been a bit, but I don't want you to get tired of me :) At any rate, I'm back with another update for you, which I hope you like. From your reviews, I gather that many of you seem to dislike Spencer a bit. Just bear with her, okay? Her character here is close to my heart, haha. I will let you in on a little secret and tell you that this chapter (Chapter 5) will surely shake things up at least a bit ;)

As always, thank you so much for your reviews. They mean the world to me! You're all fantastic, and thanks for reading & joining me on this ride! Without further adeiu:

Chapter 5: Grey Hour

"Come get your food, you worthless horse's ass!"

That's the first thing I hear as Ashley, Brandon, and Hayley enter the apartment.

Hayley's a real charmer, am I right?

I toss my work onto my bedside table as the smell of pizza invades my room. There's not a chance in hell she's getting the first slice of my pizza.

Stretching as I step into the living room, I see all three of them taking their seats around the coffee table on which the pizza sits. I plop down in my chair and make a grab for the first slice. Ashley doesn't seem to notice, though. She's infuriatingly polite about taking the next piece.

Hayley seems to remember her manners momentarily, between shoving mouthfuls of pizza into her face. "Oh, Ash, do you want a fork or anything?"

Ashley just shakes her head, "Nah, I'm good," she says as she folds her pizza and takes a bite, Brooklyn Style.

Unbe-fucking-lievable. Is nothing sacred?

I roll my eyes and ignore her, grabbing the remote and flipping on the TV. An old episode of the Golden Girls is on. Good enough for me. Blanche is pretty much the shit.

Hayley chortles. "Spence, you are pretty much the lamest person I know. Seriously. The Golden Girls?"

I open my mouth to say something, but Ashley interrupts me, quite obviously forgetting common courtesy. I told you she was a total bitch. A bitch who is going to take up space and be irritating and annoying and listen to weird music and watch weird TV. She's already annoying me more than even I expected.

"Hey now, the Golden Girls are classic," Ashley says, nudging Hayley playfully. "Bar none, the Golden Girls is the most legit show on TV. CSI has nothing on these old bags! I mean, seriously! Look at the way they act! Its deliciously appalling. If they're lame, then I'm the pope. "

"Wow. I had no idea we were in the presence of holiness," Brandon jumps in, smirking.

Okay, well...

Honestly, if Ashley thinks she's going to get into my good graces by agreeing with me on just about everything, she's dead wrong. And hat's probably exactly what she's doing.

"You know what I hate?" I interject. "Philly Cheese Steaks." Not true. Not true at all. But I want to see how far this agreeing thing goes. If she agrees with me here, then I know its all contrived. Nobody can truly hate a real Philly.

"Are you kidding?" Ashley turns to me, trying to read my expression for any sign that I'm joking. I manage to play it off. I'll just assume that it's a direct result of the acting class i took in college. When I don't answer her, Ashley continues, "Philly Cheese Steaks are impossible to hate. Between layers of cheese and delicious layers of flawlessly sliced quality steak is a little bit of magic. Hating a Philly Cheese Steak is like hating a unicorn, or saying that Neil Patrick Harris is an unfunny moron. It's just not possible."

Hayley looks back and forth from my face to Ashley's before giving me a pointed look that seemed to be a hybrid between "You're an asshole" and "That's exactly what you would've said, you lying sack of shit".

I just shrug, however. She's right, and though I love a good argument, I can't think of a reasonable counter-argument. I love Phillies like fish like water. Well, sort of. In the way that I wouldn't necessarily like to live in or swim in one, but in that they are a necessity for me. But anyway, at least now I know that Ashley isn't just mimicking me. We've very narrowly avoided what could've been an almost inconceivably large cause of annoyance.

After a few moments of silence, Brandon changes the subject and starts talking a new bar thats opening down the street. The conversation seems to flow effortlessly, but there's an uncomfortable edge in the room. Both Ashley and I laugh and talk appropriately, but we make a point not to talk directly to each other. I can tell she's uncomfortable.

I polish off my fourth piece before staging a strategically placed yawn. It's not terribly late, but its late enough, and I'm full and suddenly exhausted. I think the rest of them are tired, too. Hayley's head is bobbing slightly as she tries to stay awake, and Brandon keeps rubbing his eyes like he's trying to physically remind them to stay open. Ashley's brown eyes are only half visible as her eyelids droop. Even though they're mostly hidden, it's difficult not to notice them. They're unusual. Expressive, and a unique shade of espresso and ocher...not that I've really looked.

There's a lull in the conversation, and just as I was about to take my leave, Hayley speaks up. "I'm beat," she yawns for what must be the eight hundredth time. "Let's hit the hay, shall we?" she rises from the couch, stretching. Brandon gets up too, grabbing both the pizza boxes and stuffing them into the fridge. Ashley stands and runs a hand through her hair, then stoops to pick up the empty bottles that litter the table. I catch her eye for a split second before she returns her attention to the table fully, looking a little startled. Feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic and obviously delusional as a direct result of my fatigue, I hold out my hands for the bottles. "Here," I say simply, motioning for her to hand them to me. "Go ahead and go to bed."

"Oh, it's okay, I can just-"

"Seriously," I interrupt her. "Find a set of sheets and have Hayley help you make your bed." It's a weird thing for me, being tired. I get somehow more amiable at night, just before I go to bed. Morning tiredness is a completely different story, but I guess at the end of a long day, when I don't have the energy for snarky comments or witty remarks, nice Spencer comes out with her pigtails and lollypop. Ashley gives me a grateful, albeit confused smile as she hands over the bottles and makes her way over to the pile of boxes. She begins digging through one of them, her eyes becoming focused and concentrated, though she still looks exhausted.

"Hey Ash?" I try not to wince visibly as the ever-present Bitchy Spencer hears me use that nickname.

"Yeah?" Ashley turns her head to look at me, her eyes meeting mine. She looks surprised for a moment, then almost eager, as if she's waiting to hear what it is I'm going to say. I'd venture a guess that the surprised look that crossed her features was probably shock that I'd said a number of things to her in this short amount of time, none of which were overly passive aggressive or sarcastic.

I keep my eyes on hers for a little longer before speak. "I thought I saw a couple of sets of sheets in the box under the one on your left." With that, I move into the kitchen, tossing the bottles into the recycling bin.

"You're staying on the couch tonight, right B?" I ask Brandon, who's taking a long gulp of a glass of water.

"If it's okay," he says, wiping the water from his face.

"As if you had to ask," I roll my eyes and smirk at him. "You know where the extra blankets are." He nods, yawning. "Night, B," I say as I walk back into the living room and make my way to my bedroom. I trudge across the apartment, barely even opening my eyes. I'm getting ready to shut the door when I hear a soft, raspy-in-all-the-right-places voice say, "'Night, Spence," quietly. My eyes scan the room before landing on Ashley, who's making her way to her own bedroom. A small smile's playing across her lips. Poor girl. Poor, dumb girl. She looks as though maybe she thinks that I'm lightening up, that this easy-to-get-along-with version of me is moving in to replace the old one. She thinks its a permanent, evolving condition. Poor, dumb girl, who I don't have the heart (right now, at least) to tell that this is a fleeting condition, and that tomorrow morning, I will return my full-fledged crankiness, and I will continue to hate her; at least as far as she'll be able to tell.

I don't reveal the fact that I know what will happen tomorrow. Instead, I just smile at the dumb girl across the room from me as she looks at me with her tired brown eyes. "Night, Ash," I say before closing the door.

Shaking my head at the weakness that tiredness has caused me, I slip out of my clothes and into an old pair of shorts and an over-sized t-shirt that I ripped the sleeves off of long ago. Just as I crawl into bed, I hear Ashley's voice again, this time shouting a very panicked and eloquent, "Holy shit! Hot!" I can't help but snicker.

Looks like she found her toothbrush.

When I hear what sounds vaguely like a machine gun going off a few minutes later, I'm completely unable to stifle my laughter. I knew that Toilet + Firework Poppers ALWAYS means entertainment. A few minutes later, I can't resist getting out of bed and opening the door to see the look on her face, which I'm sure is hilarious.

When my eyes find Ashley, however, the look on her face strikes me as anything but hilarious. She's sitting on her bed, and I can just barely see her through her half-open door. She doesn't look irritated or shocked or even confused; none of the expressions that would've made this situation hilarious are upon her face. Instead she just looks...dejected.

For the umpteenth time tonight, I find myself feeling inexplicably guilty and, well, just bad. Before I have time to think about what I'm doing or second guess myself, I pull open the drawer on my nightstand and extract a small package that I picked up the other day at the shop around the corner, figuring that I should finally replace the dilapidated one that I have. But right now, in my strangely human and surprisingly not heartless state, I think that Ashley needs it more than I do.

I get up decisively, not giving myself the chance to turn back to my bedroom and go to sleep without a second thought. In a few moments, I'm standing at her door, knocking on the threshold, even though the door's already half open.

"Come in," she says tiredly. Her voice is raspy, and I notice it again, but in a different way. This time the rasp is tugging at a vital organ of mine that I wasn't even sure was still working. That rasp makes me push the door open all the way and meet her eyes. That rasp makes me try, with almost every ounce of energy I have left, to tell her silently that heartless, bitchy Spencer is someone who can't be controlled. She can only be exhausted to the point of forced hibernation. Without moving my eyes from hers, I hand her the small package.

I try one last time, before I turn to leave, to tell her silently that its not that I hate her personality, it's that I can't bring myself to care enough to not hate it. I tried that, and it just leads to attachment. Attachment that slows me down. Breaks me down. I give her a small smile before I slip back out of her door. I hear her voice again just as my fingertips are about to abandon the doorknob.

"Hey Spence?" she speaks quietly.

"Yeah?" I return, not turning around, but halfway looking over my shoulder as I try to ignore how her use of my name makes me feel better and worse simultaneously.

"Thanks for the toothbrush," I can tell by the sound of her voice that she's hopeful now. She's hopeful that maybe tomorrow will be better. That maybe tomorrow she won't feel so alone in this place that's supposed to be her home.

"Don't mention it," I respond, before making my way back to my own room. As I climb back under the covers, I wish that her hopefulness won't be completely shot to crap tomorrow morning. But there's no star to wish upon, and I know that this wish isn't about to be one that the Spencer I am during normal waking hours is going to grant.

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	6. The Best of Intentions

A/N: Hellloooooo!

I'll start off much like I do most other times and thank you for your comments. You're all so lovely!

Let me tell ya, though, there are still a bunch of anti-Spencer folks out there! Haha, understandable, indeed. Anyway, I hope this chapter gives you a little bit of perspective. Maybe it'll shed a little bit of insight on her. I hope so.

I hope you like this chapter, even though it doesn't have much dialogue. It's pretty important, especially because it sets the stage for the coming chapters. I'll stop typing, though, and let you read it. Enjoy!

OH! And if you actually read these little author's notes, tack the word "PIE" onto the end of your feedback. I'm curious to see. Love you guys!

xxisg

Chapter Six

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The first thing I hear when I wake up is the sound of Hayley's god awful singing voice. I'm not just being mean. She's really, truly terrible, and she's well aware of it. She uses it as a weapon. Who knew that such a severe lack of talent could be used for evil?

She figured out a way.

I have today off from work. The suits are working out a bunch of logistics, and in the meantime, I take a few days off, kick back, and relax before I go in and tell them that all of their prep work is probably wrong, that I can fix it, and that they should probably just go to work fixing someone else's project.

The calm before the storm.

For the time being, however, Hayley's voice is still breaking my eardrums. I sit straight up in my bed, looking for the little rat bastard she put somewhere in my room.

You see, she came up with this "brilliant" scheme years ago for whenever she wanted to make sure I didn't get to sleep in like normal people do on their days off. She would have none of that. She decided that she would record a great demo track of her singing "The Wake Up Song", which she wrote herself. Let me just tell you that a line of the song sounds something like "Up and at 'em crazy bear/Before I vomit in your hair!". I think it goes without saying that she is about as talented a lyricist as she is a vocalist.

Anyway, she conned Brandon into helping her record this horrid masterpiece in the label's studio. She then set the most durable alarm clock I've ever come across (I've thrown the damn thing against the wall more times than I can count) to play that song as the alarm. She's a real peach, I'll say.

I finally find the alarm clock under my bed, between piles of old scripts. I fumble with the buttons, but don't encounter much success, seeing as my eyes are half-closed. Finally, I just tear the batteries out of the back of the clock. I collapse back into bed for a few minutes before deciding that I've had all the sleep I'm going to get. Yawning, I step into the living room.

"Morning," I hear a voice come from the couch.

I look towards it, a little shocked before I remember that we have a new roommate. One who I strongly dislike.

I grumble something unintelligible before heading to the kitchen to make my coffee.

A few minutes later, I'm plopping into my recliner with my mug in hand.

"Did you, er, sleep alright?" Ashley asks, trying to make polite conversation.

I can't muster the energy to do anything but roll my eyes at her and respond with a vague and utterly apathetic, "Fine."

Confusion wrinkles Ashley's face, but she doesn't comment further. Instead, she gets up and moves into the kitchen for more coffee.

I roll my eyes as she leaves, not honestly believing she expected this morning to be any different. I pick up the newspaper that's sitting on the coffee table and flip through to the movie reviews. Maybe I'll go catch a movie today. I never get to see anything in the theaters anymore. Part of me is just craving a film composed entirely of bad writing, stiff acting, and mediocre production. Call it my guilty pleasure. A nice outlet for stress, if you will. I'm deciding on a what actually looks to be a promising action movie when Ashley comes back into the room. She sits back down on the couch silently, taking an intense interest in the floor. A few minutes pass, and I've decided I'm definitely going to see the show of that action movie that starts in a few hours. It'll be a good way to piss away a couple hours of my day off. I'm about get up to go take a shower and change when Ashley speaks again.

"Spence?" she asks quietly.

I have to stop myself from snapping at her, telling her not to call me that. Personally, I think the fact that I'm not telling her off shows great restraint on my part. I would have yelled at her openly in a completely hostile manner yesterday, without a doubt.

But I manage to clench my teeth and do nothing more. "Yes?" I say, not trying too hard to keep the irritated edge out of my voice.

"I was just, um, thinking that maybe if you weren't um..." she trails off.

Christ on a bike, just spit it out.

She takes a deep breath, kind of like she's regrouping. She starts again, "I was wondering if maybe you weren't doing anything today, if you would want to do something?" She speaks quickly, and chews the side of her lip. She looks nervous. She shakes her head. "Something with me, I mean. Something with me." She trips over her words a little bit.

I have to say, even I'm at a loss for words right about now. I can't believe this girl's complete refusal to get a clue. She's a masochist, that's for sure.

. I manage to spit out a quick, "I'll see what I have planned," before getting up and slipping into my bedroom to grab a change of clothes. Even as I say the words, I know I have no real intention of seeing if I have anything planned. Even if I have to schedule a root canal, I'll find a way to avoid hanging out with this girl.

I pick up my phone, checking to make sure I didn't miss anything. There's a text from Hayley.

**Take Ashley out & do something today. Or I'll cancel your Entertainment Weekly subscription.**

What a jackass. Of course she threatens me with that. Of course. I swear this girl's psychic. True, she sent it two hours ago, but still. I roll my eyes as I grab my clothes and slip out of room. Just before I shut the door to the bathroom, I poke my head out into the living room.

"Movie starts in three hours," I say simply, before ducking into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

Twenty minutes later, I step out of the bathroom, trying to rid my hair of the excess moisture with the towel that's in my hand. I make my way into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. Most of the time, I definitely wouldn't leave the apartment without straightening, curling, or at least drying my hair. But today, I can't really bring myself to care.

I slip my feet into a pair of worn out trainers that I've had for over ten years. They're pretty faded, and they have a few holes, but I'm probably not going to throw them out any time soon. I throw on a pair of sunglasses, my old hat, and a jacket before grabbing my bag. "Ready?" I ask Ashley, impatiently. Expectantly.

She springs up from her seat in a matter of milliseconds. "Yup!" She seems way too enthusiastic about that. I'd cancel right here and now if I didn't fear for the only magazine subscription that provides a constant flow of entertainment.

"Great," I grumble, opening the door and gesturing for her to get out so we can get a move on.

I lock the door behind us, and after an a elevator ride that seems to last long, awkward, silent hours, we're outside, walking down the street to the nearest subway stop. Sure, there are theaters in the neighborhood we live in, but there isn't a single theater in New York that's as great as The Georgiana Cinema.

It's across the city, but it's never too crowded or spilling over with hoards of snotty, sticky kids. Gene Michaelson opened the theater nearly 50 years ago, and named it after a girl he'd loved from afar for months. He had moved to the city from Italy, and Georgiana lived in an apartment with her mother and sister across the street.

Gene was relatively wealthy in Italy, but found that his fortune was hardly extravagant in New York. He used what money he had to rent a space in the neighborhood. The man fixed the entire place up himself and transformed it from what used to be a mediocre shop into a classic theater, complete with red velvet seats and a curtain that's still far too dignified for even Mann's theater.

To say that the object of his affection was surprised when he outfitted the marquee with delicate, ornate script which labeled the cinema as "Georgiana's" would be an understatement. She was torn between anger and flat-out confusion. She marched over to Gene, who was atop a ladder making sure the letters were arranged just so. The way Gene tells it, Georgiana downright shrieked at him. Asked him what in God's name he thought he was doing throwing her name on top of a building like that.

Well, Gene was so surprised he fell right off of that ladder, landing in front of a very upset Georgiana. He laughs at this point in the story, saying that's when he knew he'd fallen for her. Wincing only a little, he rose to his feet, smirked, and explained to the girl that even a simple moron like himself recognized a beauty that had to be honored. Gene was quite the charmer in his prime. Georgiana, however, was not convinced. "Oh really?" She'd said, "Do you name theaters after pretty girls you meet very often? Why me?"

Gene laughed a hearty Italian laugh and said to her, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, no matter where she went from this point on, she would have been the best thing that had ever happened to him. Georgiana was a goner. The two have run the theater side by side ever since. If you ask me, it's probably the last dignified theater in Manhattan. There's nothing like this place anywhere outside of old movies. I've frequented this place for years, and I'll never go anywhere else.

As we walk down the steps of the subway station, I notice that it's actually pretty chilly outside. I'm glad I brought my jacket. I look to my right and see Ashley shiver a little bit as a gust of wind rushes past us. Fantastic. She'll probably complain about being cold all the way through the movie.

We reach the bottom of the steps as the subway comes to a stop. Smirking at my impeccable timing, I step onto the train. Even better, there are open seats on the car. Unusual.

I take a seat, pulling a book out of my bag. I don't acknowledge Ashley when she takes the seat next to me. She still has no idea where we're going, and I have to give the girl credit for being smart enough not to ask me. I feign interest in the book I'm holding as the train's doors close and it takes off from the station. The train is pretty much silent as it rattles down the aging tracks. I stare intently at the words on the pages in front of me until I see Ashley's head bob out of the corner of my eye. I prepare to glare at her until I see that she's asleep and her head's fallen forward slightly.

Though my brain's shouting at me not to, telling me that I should just turn back to my book and leave it alone because this whole thing has almost incomprehensible potential to blow up and end catastrophically, I can't help myself. My brain's telling me that I'm a complete moron as my eyes travel from the perfect lines of type to the organic lines that make up the chestnut curls that are falling in front of Ashley's face. She looks tired, I notice.

_She's asleep, simpleton, of course she's tired._

Right.

But still, I even the expression on her face gives away her exhaustion. The way her eyelids seem almost grateful to have finally been given the opportunity to rest, even if its just for a few minutes. Her face looks relaxed, as though its finally been relieved of the lines that worry and stress and frustration have caused.

Three guesses as to who put those lines there, Spence. And the first two don't count.

I may be heartless, but I can assure you that I know that the way I've acted during the last 36 hours or so that we've been together upsets Ashley. There's even a small part of me that may regret it. I'm not entirely sure, but it's a possibility.

She'll get over it, though. She will. Eventually, she'll get used to the fact that I'll treat her like the heartless bitch everyone thinks I am. In fact, in a few days, it won't even phase her. It won't bother her. She'll learn not to take it personally. It won't hurt her.

I watch as Ashley shivers again, a shudder coursing through her entire body as my eyes take in her figure under the sickly yellow lights of this subway, in seats that have seen so many better days. She shivers, but her eyes remain closed.

The subway bears right swiftly in the tunnels, forcing Ashley's sleeping form into my arm.

She still doesn't wake up.

I lift my arm slightly, trying to relieve the pain that Ashley's elbow is causing as its digging into my forearm. I manage to free the appendage without waking Ashley, which I consider to be a success of at least minimal proportions. Realizing that there's really no where else to put my arm, I hesitate before slipping it around Ashley's slumped shoulders.

As my arm rises and falls with each breath that Ashley takes, each breath that results in a small, unconscious exhale on my neck, each breath that brings Ashley's body closer to mine before it moves just a little further away, I wonder if this is what I had planned all along.

I can't even trust myself anymore. I hope that this isn't my doing, not something that I foresaw and even facilitated. I really, honestly hope that sitting in this subway with Ashley very literally in my arms (or, at least one of my arms), leaning on me for support is not some part of me planning and reaching out without my conscious consent.

I really hope that I can trust myself to protect both of us from some kind of stupid, fake friendship. Because really, friends are worthless. People are worthless. You need them, of course. No healthy person is alone constantly. But friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, parents, brothers, sisters, and people in general are not to be trusted.

Regardless of whether or not they mean well, they'll leave you, they'll hurt you, they'll offend or desert you. They'll push and they'll pull until there's nothing left of the person you were. You'll realize that whatever part of yourself you gave to that person, be it big or small, is gone as soon as they are.

It always happens. The best of intentions turn into the most monumental of betrayals, and where does that leave you?

I'll tell you. It leaves you alone, and very, very literally broken. It leaves you missing pieces of yourself and pieces of your life.

Keeping everyone at arm's length isn't some stupid "Woe is me, I've been hurt and now I can't let anyone in" bullshit. It's a survival tactic. Getting close to anything means getting hurt by everything.

Some people just know when they've had enough.

Unfortunately, I'd had enough long before I ever knew a thing about Ashley...

You know, I don't actually know her last name. As the train pulls into another station, still stops away from the one we'll exit at, I realize that it's probably better that way.

No, it's definitely better that way.

I hoped you liked this little guy. It took me awhile to get it on paper (or, ya know, into a word processor) but I hope it was worth it.

AND REMEMBER: "PIE" :)

Love & Peace & Feedback, lovelies.

-isg

P.S. I guess this last A/N did make it seem like the story was over. It is not, I promise! We still have a ways to go with these two. Also, I guess I'm not so familiar with the norms on this site. Is it customary to respond to reviews via FOF? I've really wanted to, but I don't want to take up a ton of space or anything. Oh well, let me know :) xx


	7. An Unexpected Change of Heart

A/N: Okay, so I know you all probably hate my guts right now because it's been like a million years since I updated this. I will spare you excuses, but you should know that I had a ton of trouble splitting up a ton of material into reasonably sized chapters for this next bit. But anywho, this is chapter 7! Yay!

AND! to all of you who tacked pie onto your feedback: I love you. I love all of you. I want to hold your hands in friggin' Prospect Park. You're a fabulous lot. That's you guys: , LoLo06, .HEART, goshNyikes, Baley-fo-life, uluvme, wannabebo352, Life-Live-Love-Learn, BeautifulDisarmed, Conscious, MoonShoesPotter, and the rest of y'all. Thank you so much for your lovely feedback, and for actually giving a shit about what I write. Or at least pretending. I can't thank you enough!

In other news, if this chapter seems kind of filler-y, have no fear. There is so much to come, and I'm excited for you all to see it! So please please PLEASE tell me what you think, what you liked, what you didn't, etc. If you just want to leave feedback saying hello, that's great too! I just like hearing from everyone. It's nice to know that I'm not just posting into a reader-less abyss.

Okay, so this was really long. I'm so sorry. If I've been doing my job correctly, you don't want to read this crap. You want to read the crap below it that actually follows a plot. But in short: THANK YOU so much for your kind words and for reading. I love you all, and enjoy!

xxisg

* * *

Chapter 7:

I have half a mind to leave Ashley right here on the subway.

I'm being completely serious.

First of all, my arm is still around her shoulders, so any chance of pretending that I am in no way, shape, or form associated with her is out the window. At this point, my arm is being held hostage. I tried to move it once, but unconscious Ashley would have none of that.

No, instead, she just moved closer and started snoring. Honestly, she's snoring. On the subway. I'm attempting to ignore all of the dirty looks that are telling me to shut whoever she is up.

But I can't move her, or shut her up. She'll wake up, discover the little "situation" that she's gotten us into, not to mention the fact that I'm absolutely sure that bitchy Spencer will swoop in to make an incredibly rude comment. I don't have the energy to make things worse, nor deal with the repercussions. So instead, I just sit there as she breathes on my neck, snores (I swear, she's only a few decibels away from _literally_ sawing logs), and rests her hand on my abdomen.

Every minute we're here I can feel myself disliking Ashley more and more. I feel like a moron just sitting stiffly in these horribly uncomfortable seats.

After what seems like centuries, the subway pulls into our station, and I nudge Ashley, trying to wake her up. No such luck.

The doors open, and I nudge her a little harder, but it's useless. She's completely zonked out. I watch as people enter the car, not giving us a second glance, before the doors close again. We've missed our stop.

Fantastic.

I use the arm that's around Ashley's shoulders to shake her gently, hoping it works. But, of course, it doesn't. Ashley sleeps like a fat bear in winter.

"Ashley," I try, speaking a little louder than I probably should on a crowded subway car. The newcomers have glanced up from their papers for just a moment to glare at me for disturbing them. I avoid eye contact.

Not seeing another alternative, I lean closer to Ashley, rolling my eyes. "Ash," I whisper, moving a strand of her hair out of the way. I have half a mind to shout in her ear, of course. But I think it's obvious that Scared Ashley would make a much larger and embarrassing scene than Sleeping Ashley.

"C'mon, Ash," I whisper again. You know, it's times like these that I really wish Hayley wasn't my best friend. Mostly because she stops me from buying things like keychain air horns, which would come in incredibly handy right about now.

Just when I'm about to give up, Ashley stirs a little bit. "Ashley, wake up." I say it flat out. I mean who falls asleep on the goddamn subway? Aside from homeless people and narcoleptics, of course.

You know, she's actually no so bad this way. Now if this was a permanent condition, I might not have such a huge problem with her being in the apartment in the first place.

Who am I kidding? Of course I would.

But she's much more bearable like this. Quiet, unassuming. The fact that she won't wake the fuck up is kind of a pain in the ass, but I can't bring myself to be upset when she's really not bothering me.

I feel the train bear to the left again, forcing her closer to me once more. I tighten my grip around her shoulders, making sure she isnt' thrust in the other direction as the train straightens out

It's strange, you know? Looking out for other people. I didn't even really mind it. I'd forgotten what it felt like, it's been so long since I've bothered. Which is why it has to stop. I can't just change now. I operate independently. That's the only way it works.

I don't hear Ashley until a few moments later.

"Hey," she says quietly, straightening up a little.

"Er, hey," I say. What can I say? She caught me off guard. I don't have anything snarkier. "You, um, fell. Asleep, I mean. You fell asleep."

Wow, Spencer. Clever. Very Clever.

"Yeah. Oh wow, yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just..." I tune out for a second as I see the expressions cross her face. First, confusion, then embarrassment, and finally fear. "-and I guess I just conked out," she finishes, her cheeks flushing. "Sorry," she mumbles one last time.

It's at this point that I realize that I still have my arm around her. I'm surprised I don't hurt either one of us as I draw my hand back faster than Muhammad Ali ever threw a punch.

Before I have a chance to recover, the bored sounding voice comes over the intercom, announcing the next stop.

Ashley looks at me, a little panicked and, once again, fearful. Like she's afraid I might attack and just tear her head clean off. "Um," she bites her bottom lip, "We missed our stop, didn't we?" She looks genuinely upset.

Cue old Spencer: "We sure did. Mostly because you wouldn't rejoin the land of the living, you worthless pile."

Fortunately, this strange creature I've deemed "New Spencer" catches the words before they tumble past my lips. Instead I say, "Yeah, but it's alright. We could probably use some lunch anyway."

Are you shocked? Because I know I am. I mean, really, what the fuck is happening to me?

The subway comes to a stop and Ashley and I step off. I nearly miss the smirk that pulls the corner of Ashley's mouth upwards.

Almost.

I hope this girl doesn't think she's breaking me. Because she isn't.

She totally isn't.

Just then, something occurs to me.

"How did you know we missed the stop?" I know that I didn't tell her where we were going, only that we were seeing a movie.

Ashley folds her arms across her chest in a mostly ineffective attempt to ward off the chilly air as we walk up the stairs to join the bustle of the street above. She shrugs slightly. "You said we were going to see a movie. I guess I just assumed you meant the best one in the city," she smirks again.

"Besides, we passed almost every other stop that would've led us to a halfway decent theater."

She may be an irritating imbecile, but she's certainly right.

I look at her her, genuinely surprised. Hayley wouldn't have bothered to tell her about my rather strong opinion of the theater.

"You know about the Georgiana?" My left eyebrow raises skeptically.

Ashley nods, still looking straight ahead at the quirky neighborhood we're making our way into. "Of course. I lived in this neighborhood for years," she smiles. "It hasn't changed much."

Now, if I were to vocalize what I'm thinking, I'd be telling her that I'm impressed. If we didn't have our loft on the other side of the city, I wouldn't mind living her. It's an oddly charming and off-beat place.

Greenwich village just has a way of charming you, I suppose.

But there's no way I'm telling her that. I just mumble quietly. "Let's eat here," I nod my head in the direction of the Bayside Restaurant across the street.

Barring only Pete's, Bayside is probably my favorite place to eat. It's simple, and it's great.

You see, years ago, a guy moved to big, bad New York City from San Diego, and missed the left coast, along with the surfing lifestyle. Bayside, part oasis and part eatery, was born.

Brian's been serving up the city's best burgers, fries, shakes, and pancakes (he figured a little touch of random never hurt anyone) for nearly a decade.

Ashley smirks, nodding as we cross the relatively busy street.

We're through the doors in no time, and I find myself smiling at the floor to ceiling murals that adorn the walls. Brian made them from pictures of he and his friends took during his days in Huntington Beach. My dad and Brian have been good friends since they were kids, and I'll admit that it's always nice to see a familiar face on this side of the city.

Brian emerges from the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen, saying "How many today, folks, without looking up from the menu in his hands.

"Just two, Brian." I grin as the aging surfer looks at me, first confused, then delighted.

"Well if it isn't Princess Carlin!" Brian tosses the menu aside as he uses the nickname my dad gave me years ago.

He pulls me into a bone-crushing bear hug. His blond, longish hair still seems to smell of the beach, if that's possible.

I can say with confidence that Brian is the only person I've allowed to hug me in the last year. I'm pretty sure that I couldn't stop Brian, even if I tried.

He pulls back, grinning. "It's so good to see you, kid." His eyes fall on Ashley a moment later.

"Holy shit," he shakes his head. "If it isn't Miss Ashley D."

I watch, surprised, as Ashley and Brian do some kind of complicated handshake. I'm kind of wondering who the hell still does handshakes.

After they finish, Brian, still grinning like an idiot, escorts us to the back of the restaurant. It's no coincidence that he seats us next to a giant picture of he and my dad on the beach. That was probably 20 years ago, maybe more.

Brian tells us that Ricky will be with us in a moment, but as he turns to leave, he stops. "Have you talked to him recently, Spence?"

I look away. "No," I answer simply.

He nods slowly, knowing that neither arguing or lecturing will do any good. "He misses you, you know," he finishes before walking back to the front of the restaurant and busying himself cleaning the windows.

Ashley looks confused, but doesn't ask questions. Quick learner, this one.

"So, uh," I begin awkwardly, trying to relieve some of the tense confusion in the air. "How do you know Brian?"

She smirks, the left side of her mouth raising slightly. "When I first moved to New York, young and insistent on supporting myself, I needed a job. I had no experience. In anything. All I had was my music business degree, which did me very little good outside of a record label. Even in one, getting a job could take weeks. Months, more likely. And getting one that paid enough to buy food and pay rent would seemed pretty much impossible."

"Anyway, long story short, Brian gave me a job when no one else would. I worked here for about a year and a half."

I nod, trying to keep the urge to just approve of Ashley at bay. It takes a lot more than just working for a guy who I consider to be the only real family I have. And liking the same amazing pizza that I do. And shamelessly defending the Golden girls. It takes a lot more than being feisty enough to not put up with my shit. And it takes more than being _ridiculously _good looking_._

Fuck.

Well, you know, she's not hideous, is what I'm trying to say. But whatever, I bet she looks like a troll in the morning.

I'm pulled from my inner monologue by Ashley coughing nervously. I realize now that my eyes have been on her for an awkwardly long time.

It's not staring, though. I'm just, um, shocked that she managed to be tolerable for an extended period of time. Right?

I look away pretending to be really interested in my napkin.

"Holy Shit. If it isn't Spencer Carlin in the flesh!" a familiar voice speaks behind me.

"Hey Ricky," I smirk at my cousin. Despite the fact that we live in the city, Ricky and I rarely see each other. You see, Ricky is flamboyantly gay, and my mother is a Rush Limbaugh-loving conservative. To say that Ricky's homosexuality caused a rift in the Carlin family structure would be like saying that World War II was a misunderstanding and perhaps just a small skirmish. Ricky and get along pretty well, but I guess we haven't really been close since college.

Ricky smirks as he spots Ashley. "And it's Princess Ashley D!"

Ricky shoots me a shit-eating grin. "Your taste has certainly improved," he winked.

It s at this point that I choose to deliver a swift kick to Ricky's shin. The boy never could keep his trap shut.

"Right," he mutters, "I'll be back with some drinks."

Ashley looks at me curiously after Ricky left, but she proves her intelligence by once again keeping quiet.

It isn't long before the silence starts to bother me. I could tell myself that it's just because it isn't a comfortable silence, that it isn't because I just want to talk to her again. But I'm not sure how much truth there would be to that statement. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, but there's something about it that I just...like?

A/N: So once again, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and I sincerely hope you'll just take a second to talk to me and tell me what you think. What you say makes my day, and I'm totally not exaggerating. There's something about your (virtual) voices that I just like :)

There will be more to come, very soon. This story is ready to really take off. Thanks for reading. Feedback = Love, and I will converse with you all in the feedback section!

xxisg

Oh! P.S. If you read the entire A/N without getting too irritated with me and my rambling and you are still interested in this crazy ass story, throw the word "Hashbrowns" onto your feedback. Love you guys!


	8. Chapter 8 A Many Antler'd Thing

A/N: Oh good lord please don't stone me for trying to crawl back after an entire ice age has passed since my last update. I sincerely hope that not everyone who was reading this story has become a fossil by now. I felt the need to revisit this little guy, bring it down from the attic, dust it off, and make it shiny and new again.

I really hope you enjoy, thank you for reading and please please please leave a little love behind before you venture back into the balmy sunshine of this lovely forum.

xxisg

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Chapter 8 - A Many Antler'd Thing

Ashley is a goddamn foot-shuffler. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Entire wars have been won with less noise than she makes walking down the block. Her flip-flops clap against the pavement, then her feet clap against the flip-flop, and she drags her feet. I can't stand it. It's like listening to an octopus flop along the pavement trying to get to the wax museum before the animal husbands/zookeepers catch him.

She'll only just barely escape with her life because we're just a few short steps from the theater and I'm a merciful, understanding, and patient sole. That was a pun for you.

We step up to the window to find the box office attendant—an older gentlemen named "Sonny"—slumped in his chair, asleep and snoring so loud it surprises me each time he inhales, even though I know it's coming. Ashley has a $20 in her hand and without hesitation, reaches through the small hole in the window, grabs two tickets, and leaves the entire twenty on the counter for Sunny.

Show-off.

Still, Sonny is the best and he deserves it.

Ashley leads the way through the large wooden doors of the theater into the all-but-deserted lobby.

"Popcorn?"

Like that's even a question.

"Of course." I start to feel something unfamiliar. I can't put my finger on it.

Oh. It's that nagging, guilty feeling that comes with being a free-loading son of a bitch. Usually, I can pretty much ignore it. Asshole-o-meter must be busted.

"I can get the concessions," I add, reaching for my wallet.

Ashley stops me, putting her hand on my arm. I recoil. She pretends not to notice.

"I got it. Today's on me." She says the words cautiously, clearly preparing for a snide comment or personal attack. Though she probably deserves it, who am I to argue? If she wants to foot the bill, it's fine by me.

I shrug. "I'll go get seats."

Minutes later, she shuffles into the theater with her loud feet/tentacles. I'm in the front row. There's a couple towards the back of theater, but it kind of looks like they're in here for the air conditioning, not the movie.

Ashley sits down and hands me the bucket of popcorn. The biggest one the Georgiana has, which is roughly the size of a midget grain elevator.

Alright, well played. Four for you, Ashley Davies. Clearly you're playing for keeps here.

The lights dim and the old-timey "Please be quiet during the show" slide fills the screen before the countdown starts. Ashley nudges me, but before I can hiss something mean spirited in her general direction, she hands me a box. I relax my scowl ever so slightly to see what it is she's handed me.

A box of Sno Caps.

I fucking love Sno Caps. You don't understand. They aren't _hard_ to find, per se, but they aren't exactly the first thing your average Ashley Davies picks up at the candy counter. Not only that, but there are a ridiculous number of people who don't appreciate these chocolate mountain glories. So, did she know or did she guess?

My bets are on guess but if we've learned anything it's that Hayley isn't above forcing two people to be friends through forced interaction and "coincidences". She's severely misguided and lacks a firm grip on reality, two things that become huge drawback when she's fancies herself the friend matchmaker and when she watches sci-fi movies and television. For some reason, her inhabitation of her own little world makes it nearly impossible for her to reconcile the real world and an entirely different fake world. It gets confusing, but my most recent method of explanation is simply, "Just look at the jets of light. Red is bad, cheer for the other team." These are terms she seems to understand. However, my point is that Hayley is meddlesome and confused and thinks that she can make everyone's light saber blue whilst she puts them in tight leather-y pants and super-suave Han Solo hair.

"Er, thanks," I say, opening the cardboard flaps of the box.

Ashley smirks, looking just a little bit pleased with herself. This rubs me the wrong way. But then again, everything rubs me the wrong way.

"I hope you don't mind, but I got us one massive soda with two straws."

Ew. Do I mind? What, all of her germs, possibly infectious diseases, and backwash? No, not at all. Except for the fact that relative strangers sharing soda is one of the grossest things you can possibly inflict upon yourself.

Will she take my Sno Caps if I call her out? It's possible. I don't want to risk it.

"Thanks."

She looks relieved. "No problem."

The previews begin. Ashley is quiet, probably out of concern for self-preservation. Within the first few moments of the movie, Ashley leans into me, however.

"Good choice. I love this one."

It takes me a minute to figure out what she's talking about before I remember that I never told her what movie we were coming to see. Patience is a virtue.

-  
Something's bothering me. I hate getting up in the middle of a movie to go to the bathroom, but I hate people that text during movies infinitely more, and I've seen this movie dozens of times. I stand up during one of the more anti-climatic moments and head out to the lobby, whipping my phone out once I'm through the door and construct a message to Hayley.

**You're an asshole. Sno Caps? Really? Dick.**

Couldn't have said it better myself. But before the reply can come through, a big, booming voice says my name from across the lobby.

"Spencer!" Gene's voice fills the room. He's coming toward me with his arms outstretched and engulfs me in a big Italian bear hug.

"Hey there Gene," I say, pretty much into his massive shoulders. "How's it going?"

He releases me and I try not to gasp for breath in an obvious way. That's a rookie mistake. If you don't appreciate the big Italian bear hug, you don't deserve the big Italian bear rug.

"It's good, business is slow but business is always slow. It is fast enough," he answers in his thick accent. He beams, "How are you? I saw you're here with someone. She's stunning. She is someone special to you?"

I let out a short laugh. "Hardly. Hayley decided we needed another roommate. That's her."

Gene furrows his brow. "You don't like her, then?" He looks disapproving. Dammit Gene. He's like my dad. Except, you know, I talk to him. "What is wrong with her?"

"Jesus, I don't know Gene, she's just irritating."

He smirks, "She likes you."

I scowl at him.

"No, no not like that. She wants to be friends with you, Spencer. It is obvious," he shrugs.

"Oh really? How's that, Mr. Italian Casanova?"

"Well," he chuckles, "maybe I cheated just a little. I saw her at the concessions and I have seen her here before so I decide I will talk to her today. I ask her what brings her to the theater" he stops there.

"And she said?" I prod him.

"That, my dear, is only for me to know. But you must give her a chance! Not everyone is out to make you miserable, bambina. You mustn't make them miserable either? Yes?"

I give him a look that tells him I understand but that I have no real intention of taking his advice to heart. He sighs and puts one of his massive arms around me in a half-hug.

"One day, Spencer. One day." He smirks and shakes his head as he walks away, back in the direction of the projection room.

I check my phone before heading back into the theater. There's a message from Hayley.

**Sno Caps? What are you talking about? What's struck your crazy nerve today?**

Alright, lucky guess it is, then. I send back a quick reply.

**Nevermind. Hate your guts. See you later.**

I venture back into the theater to one of the best scenes. As I walk down the aisle down to our seats, I can see Ashley mouthing the words. Dork.

I plop down in the seat next to her and she turns to me and gives me a weird smile like a hungry reindeer who's been invited into the Santa Mansion for a Christmas feast and sugar cookies. Freaky-deaky. Why does no one else understand that this girl's a creep? And a creepy antler'd mammal at that? My god, we'll have to drape lights from those things. 'Tis the season!

The credits begin to roll and Ashley starts to get up from her seat. I grab her arm and pull her back down. She looks at me, confused.

"Always stay until the production assistant credits roll. They work hard and get paid jack shit."

She nods, seeming to get it. As the credits continue to roll, I see her turn to look at me again. I ignore it. Who knows what she wants? She looks back to the screen. Good decision.

Martha Lipton and her merry gang of production assistants roll across the screen and feeling satisfied, I get up from the posh seat and pick up the popcorn and soda.

"Hey Spence?"

I stop and turn back around. "Yeah?"

Ashley looks a little nervous again. "Thanks for, er, you know, letting me come with you."

I have to say, I'm a little taken aback. Her expression betrays how hard she's trying to make nice. It makes me feel bad and Bitchy Spencer recoils as if she's been hit by a sudden, blinding ray of light.

Before I can catch myself, I'm smiling at her. "Don't mention it."

Ugh, what?

-

A/N: Alright loves, this has been the most recent installment of Love on the Rocks. I hope you liked it, there will be more to come (I know I say that every time, but know that I have the best intentions always!).

In the next update we'll be catching up with Spencer and Ashley on their merry way back home. If you read this, liked it, read this pathetic author's note and don't want to scold me for weeks and take away my birthday, please include the phrase "brussels sprouts" somewhere in your comment. You're all lovely and the very best.

Cheers!

xxisg


	9. Moosehead and the Elevator Blues

A/N: Hello, everyone! It's good to be back. I have returned with another update for you! Just for you. I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I hope to be back very very soon with the next installment, but in the meantime, have fun with this bad boy.

Please Please Please leave a little love in the form of some feedback on your way out. It makes me so so happy. Also, there's been a stunning amount of traffic on this story in the last few weeks and I want to hear from you guys! So give me a shout, and if you read all of this little Author's Note, toss "Janeway" into your feedback somewhere.

I'll stop talking. Enjoy the ride and I hope to hear from you on the other side!

Chapter 9: Moosehead and the Elevator Blues

We're back on the subway. No, Ashley did not fall asleep again. I mean, obviously it was a distinct possibility and I don't necessarily blame you if the notion was the second thing that popped into your head, but the narcoleptic fiend has managed to stay conscious for an entire subway ride. And the Oscar goes to…

Anyway, we're moments away from the stop, which means we're minutes away from home, and probably an hour or so away from having to deal with Hayley when she's released from the sterile glass and aluminum cage in which she works. So, in essence, this escapade of ours has a definite termination point; the end is in sight and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

I mean I realize that it stands to reason that I would be overjoyed to escape the company of the chestnut-curled architect of destruction, but I find myself enjoying being ripped to shreds. There's a tingling sensation about it that appeals to my inner masochistic tendencies.

Alas, the train begins to slow and a voice comes over the loudspeaker to say "Garble garble garble garble, garb-garb-ie-garble garb. Garble garb and garbie garb!"

In conductor that means "We're here and have a nice day."

Ashley and I get up from the disconcertingly sticky and the consistently uncomfortable plastic seats of the subway car and make our way to the doors, which open momentarily to let a couple dozen people off onto the platform. We trudge up the stairs to street level, maintaining the silence we've been steeped in for twenty minutes or so.

As our feet touch the pavement, she's the one to break it, "I just want to thank you again for today, Spencer. It was—"

I cut her off, "Jesus Ashley, we've been through this. Several times."

I winch at the way the words come out. Is there really a reason for it? Or am I being a bitch just to be a bitch? I soften my tone a little, "I mean, I had a good time. You don't need to thank me." Embarrassed by my tendency to be a total dickhead, I look at my feet as I walk. "Thanks. For, you know, coming with me."

Out of the corner of my eye I can see a smile pulling at the corner of her lips and making dimples in her cheeks. I turn my head ever-so-slightly to look at her and her eyes seem to have lit up. I'm having a Steve Urkel moment via "Did I do that?"

A few more steps lead us to the front door of our building, right past the doorman, and to the elevators. Ashley pushes the button to call it and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet like a lolling ship while we wait.

For the first time (as far as I can remember) since I met her, I start talking first. "So, tell me all about Ashley. What's your favorite movie? Favorite music? Favorite beer? Why did you move and what was wrong with the last place? Any terrible landlord stories?"

If Ashley was surprised by my sudden thaw and seemingly unfounded interest in her life, it only flashed across her face for a moment before she adjusts and covers it pretty well. She breathes out a soft laugh, "Well, P.I. Carlin, I'll start with the easy ones. My favorite movie is a tie between White Christmas and The Wedding Singer. Asking my favorite music is like asking me to pick a favorite child, but at least you didn't ask what my favorite band was. I hate that question. But I'm into some old stuff—some Sam Cooke, Aretha, the Temptations, Frank, Dean, Sammy, you know—and as far as newer stuff, I can't possibly narrow it down. I'm into poppy stuff, folky stuff, punky stuff, R&B stuff, acoustic stuff. I'll make you a mixed CD!" She says it excitedly, then stops herself, clearly nervous that she's overstepped.

I nod to encourage her, "That sounds great. I suck at finding new music, and while I love me some Alanis, I think it's time for a refresh."

Ashley grins, "Alanis is great. But yeah, I'd love to turn you on to some new music."

Interesting choice of words, Ashley. She realizes a few seconds after she says them and blushes, clearly trying to think of something to correct herself.

I toy with a few possibilities regarding my next words before, "I'd like that," comes tumbling out. Hey there, Spencer. I move on quickly, trying to diffuse a little tension. "You skipped one of the most important questions," I raise an eyebrow in her general direction. "Favorite beer?" I hope she's keeping in mind that the answers to these questions may very well determine whether or not I ever speak to her again. Or something.

"Easy," Ashley says, relieved that we're moving on. "It's Moosehead all the way. So damn good."

"The stuff from Montana? The green bottle stuff?"

"That's the stuff, alright."

Not bad. Moosehead is pretty good. I can handle that.

"I approve. That stuff's pretty good. Now onto the next one: why did you move out of the last place? Creepy landlord? Creepy neighbors? Were you the creepy neighbor? Did you shoot a man in the hallway just to watch him die?"

The elevator finally arrives and the doors open. Ashley laughs as we step into the metal box. "No, nothing that interesting. Or terrifying," she punches the button for our floor. "It was a great apartment. Great location, great layout, nice building. I guess I just got tired of living alone." She punches the button for our floor. "My building was full of sad, lonely business people who had chosen careers over family and who've slowly lost all of the friends they had. Now all they have are golfing buddies, and where is there to golf around here anyway? I couldn't stay there."

I think for a moment; golf course, divorced yuppies, lonely business people. These things all point to big ass apartment complex with big ass prices to match.

She continues, "Bottom line was, I was tired of living alone so I thought it might be nice to try living with someone else. I hated living alone. Sure, it's nice not having to worry about leaving the chain off the door or divvying up the chores, but you always walk into a dark apartment with no one to talk to until it's time to go to bed, alone."

The elevator arrives on our floor as the plot thickens. Ashley's lonely. I remember now that Hayley had mentioned something about Ashley wanting to live with other people, but I figured it was just a cover-up for a shitty situation with a previous landlord. It's a common enough problem. But she's actually, legitimately lonely.

In a very uncharacteristic turn of events, I begin to feel bad for her. It seems like all she wants are some people to come home to. I wonder where her family is. Do they live far away? Does she not talk to them anymore?

Who knows?

She breaks my train of thought by speaking again as she unlocks the door to our apartment. "What about you, Spence? Favorite Music? Movies? TV? Book? What's your story?" The door to the apartment swings forth, and I make a beeline for my chair.

"Well," I stroke my chin contemplatively, "I think as far as music goes, I have no idea where I'm at. I love the Pogues—"

Ashley cuts in. A bold move, and one that would usually piss me off, but I seem to be in a very forgiving and personable mood. "Sweet Jesus," she says, "the Pogues are so great! Sorry," she looks apologetic and nods for me to continue.

"Right?" I feel as though I shouldn't totally ignore her. I mean, the Pogues are just that good. "Fairytale of New York is the epitome of an Irish drinking/Christmas song."

She nods her agreement, and that seems to be the end of that matter. An awkward silence falls between us.

Fortunately (though it may become unfortunate) Hayley bursts through the door. She's out of breath.

"Oh thank god," she breathes, closing the door and leaning up against it to catch her breath. "I was sure I was going to come back here to find both of your mangled corpses and blood all over this very nice, very clean carpet." I hate her. "So, did you two have a good day?"

I look at Ashley, who promptly turns her attention toward her shoes. There's an odd tint to her cheeks though. I think maybe she's blushing. Despite my best efforts to contain it, a smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. So Ashley did have a good time today. Apparently, quite a good time.

Hayley has her arms folded and she's grinning in a way that is wholly unsettling. "I'll go ahead and take that as a yes." She puts down her bag and saunters into the kitchen. "Anyone want a beer?" she shouts from the fridge.

"Good Lord, yes," I say, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch and reaching for the remote.

"Agreed," Ashley tries—mostly in vain—to hide her blush again. "Wholeheartedly agreed.

A/N: I hope this lived up to expectations. I realize we didn't move too far forward here, but I promise that in the next few updates we will dip into some real development.

Thank you so much for reading, and I'd love it if you left a little feedback action. And remember, if you read the Author's Note, tack that secret word onto your feedback!

Have a great rest of the week!

xxsb


	10. Thai Food, an Alien, and a Sleeping Bag

A/N: Hello! And as always, I'm sorry it's been so long.

BUT. I have a bit of a something-or-other. If you are also a fan of Naomily (Skins), maybe you would be interested in another thing I've just started on over here: http:/www[dot]fanfiction[dot]net/s/7696891/1/A_Real_FixerUpper

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, I'd love it if you left some feedback if you're enjoying this so far. Additionally, if you read this Author's Note and you're maybe thinking about checking out that other fix (no obligations, though) work the word "fixer-upper" into your feedback.

Thanks & Happy New Year!

xxsb.

xxx

Three days. It's been three days since Ashley and I boldly ventured to the other side of Manhattan. 72 hours I've spent chained to my desk and my damn computer, spouting answers to banal questions about catering, rewrites, union hours, and other soul-sucking administrative dribble. To say I'm in a sour mood would be an understatement.

Today is Thursday and its 9 p.m. I'm hardly in the mood to settle on a gray-ish frozen burrito for dinner. In fact, I'm relatively sure that those expired 3 weeks ago. All of this leads me to my current situation. I'm about half a block a way from our building with a leaky bag of greasy Thai food in tow. There is no doubt in my mind that I look ridiculous, carrying this bag at arms length like it's some kind of MSG-packed explosive device. But, these are new(ish) shoes and I know from experience that whatever divine special sauce they put on their chicken does not mix with fabric of any kind. The smell is persistent. And transformative. The stench of delicious Thai chicken might be bearable. But 48 hours and 3 washes later, my sweater smelled like cat barf soaked in pickle juice. Not pleasant.

"Hey, hi, sorry, this is gross. It's leaking. Yuck," I'm rushing past Grant the doorman when I remember that he is the most glorious, dependable man in my life and is always prepared for my miniature disasters. Like the time I was late to work but forgot my umbrella upstairs and he let me borrow his. And by "the time" I mean four times. And every time, he had one that matched my outfit. Who even does that? I'm hardly capable of finding pants that match my shirts. And then there was the time that I woke up late and had to get dressed in the dark because the power was out for some god-forsaken reason and he took one look at me before making me change into gray pants and the greatest, most comfortable sweater I've ever experienced. He just happened to have them in the cubby under the counter. Turns out I had dressed myself in green corduroy pants, a strokes t-shirt, and a bright orange cardigan. Of course, I was pissed when he shoved the clothes into my arms and told me to "get out of that hideous homeless costume" and put on some real clothes. But, I managed to forgive him when he didn't mention the fact that I never returned the sweater that was clearly crafted by the very hands of the sweater god.

Actually, I'm not sure how I never realized he was gay before this moment.

Grant relieves me of the leaky bag and mops up the excess grease before producing a plastic bag that he wraps around the rapidly deteriorating paper one. Handing it back to me, he gives me a wide grin. "What would you even do without me?"

I smile for the first time since I saw Ashley trip over Hayley's boots the other night on her way into the apartment. "Fair enough. I would look like a drowned rat on every rainy day and a homeless person every time the power goes out."

"And you'd be going barefoot every time you come down from your apartment, drunk off your ass on your way to the "bodega" for "mama's drunktime goodies"."

Right. I'd forgotten about that. "Grant, if you tell anyone about that—"

"Relax. I haven't saved your hide time after time to trash your rep now."

I shoot him an appreciative smile. "Thanks, Grant." I take the bag as he hands it back to me. I make it up to the apartment without incident, but my hands are kind of full and my keys are in my back pocket. So, I kick the door a few times, "Hayley, open the fu-"

The door swings open before I can finish. "Hey Spence." Ashley's on the other side, shooting me a small smile. "Hayley went out for a bit. With, um…"

"What's his face, yeah. He's the worst. But, her loss is your gain. I've got loads of greasy Thai food and I'm in a sharing kind of mood. Are you hungry?" I step inside the apartment and nudge the door shut behind me.

She picks up a book that's facedown on the couch, closes it and sits down. "I love Thai food."

"Excellent." I set the bag down on the coffee table. "I'm just going to change into something that needs to be donated anyway in case of a special sauce mishap, but go ahead and get started."

My bed looks like the 8th Wonder right now. It's odd, but sometimes I kind of cherish the time between finishing a particularly long, boring, gruesome day at work and going to bed. Right now, the only thing standing between me and reruns of Star Trek in my bed until I fall asleep is some delicious Thai food. It's all good.

I wriggle out of my pants and toss my sweater onto the chair before slipping on the world's most comfortable plaid pajama pants. Before I can grab my shirt, I remember the most important element of a Thursday night.

"Hey Ashley?" I step back out into the living room. "Could you open a bottle of wine?"

She looks over the couch at me. "Yeah s—" she trips over the word for a moment. This is why I think she might have come to us brain-damaged, not lonely. "Sure." Her eyes are doing this something odd. They look like they have some kind of weird shit going on.

This is exactly when I realize that I've walked out of my room shirtless. I mean, I do it all the time when it's just Hayley and I. It's no big deal. But suddenly my face feels hot, my palms are a bit sweaty, and I shiver a little bit.

"Right. Cool. I'll be, um, right back."

I duck back into my room and throw a sweatshirt on over my head and pop back out into the living room before I have too much time to dwell on the prolonged falling feeling in my stomach. Feigning interest in my fraying shirt sleeve, I sit down on the couch and wait for Ashley, who is in the kitchen opening that bottle of wine.

"So, um, other than having to interact with Hayley's tool of a boyfriend, how was your day?"

Ashley emerges from the kitchen, two glasses of wine in her hands and, if I'm not mistaken, a blush on her cheeks.

"It was decent. We signed a new band. I've been working on bringing them aboard for awhile. Decent deal. National tour with a series of one-offs on holidays. Then another studio release with the label. It was a good day, I guess. How about yours?"

"Shit," I respond before thanking her for the glass of wine she hands me. "Over budget, under-funded, over-crowded, yet somehow under-staffed." I take a generous sip of wine. "I love my job, but not during post-production. It's just been one of those weeks. So which band did you sign?"

I hope I said that right. I have little to no idea what the words she said mean. One offs, releases, labels, studios. But, astonishingly enough, I do seem to be holding a bona-fide conversation with my lonely brunette roommate.

"This little Brooklyn folk-pop project. Not especially unique, but they have a good sound."

"And yet you sound morose," I observe, employing a stuffy British accent, lest I halt my so-far impressive conversation with a too-serious prodding question.

Ashley chances a glance in my direction and looks a little surprised that I'm a) still listening and b) haven't said anything mean or inappropriate. Frankly, I'm surprised too.

"It's fine. I just get tired of signing rip-off bands, you know?"

I don't know. I literally don't have any idea. I know what a rip-off band must be, but what they're ripping off I have no idea, and I couldn't name a rip-off band if you slapped me across the face with a dozen times with a ten-pound salmon.

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." I hope that's a correct enough response.

"But the label has to sign what pays the bills, not what or who's significant to popular music sucking less." She takes another swig from her glass. "Sorry. Unsolicited bitching about my perfectly cushy but creatively draining job."

I shake my head. "Don't apologize. Everyone needs a good bitching now and then. And in my case, "now and then" usually comes around at least 3 times a day."

She chuckles, maybe just to be polite.

"What do you say we dig in to some magically delicious Thai food and watch whatever's on SyFy?" I suggest.

"That sounds excellent."

"Are you sure? I mean with SyFy, it's a bit of a gamble. It could be great, like The Blob or Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It could also be beyond awful. Like Tremors or Deep Space Nine. But the rule is, if we turn on SyFy, we accept the dangerous game of roulette we've entered into and we _must_ leave the channel on and view the program until it ends."

Ashley looks thoughtful for a moment. "A serious gamble indeed. But I'm feeling adventurous tonight. Challenge accepted, Carlin."

"Excellent."

I flip on the TV.

Alien.

"Oh hell yes. I love this movie."

"Right? So great. And it just started. Looks like our gamble paid off."

She smirks, "I would say so."

We dig in as Ripley insists that the quarantine protocol dictates that her shipmates must stay outside of the airlock for 24 hours.

"Doomed. You're all doomed."

The rest of the meal is spent in silence with the occasional editorial comment along the lines of "Don't go in there!" or "Don't follow the cat!" or "Kill the robot!". By the time we finish, Ripley and the last of her shipmates are preparing the shuttle for an escape.

"What do you think would've happened if Ripley'd gone for the coolant instead of these two?" Ashley asks.

"Ripley would've kicked some serious Alien ass, that's what would've happened."

"Truth."

We fall back into a comfortable silence as the alien picks off the last of Ripley's comrades. Soon, she's shoved him out of the airlock of the shuttle and is barreling back towards Earth. When the credits start to roll, I look over at Ashley.

She's asleep.

Her cheek is resting on her hand and her breathing is slow and steady. Actually, her mouth is open and I think she's drooling a little. Pretty amusing sight.

"Ashley?"

No response.

"Ash?"

The credits come to an end, making way for SyFy's next selection.

"One more glass," I mutter. Not that anyone's listening. "Ashley, do you want a pillow?"

No response, as expected.

I blow out a sigh and settle back into the couch for a moment, savoring the wine's blissful influence. A little bit of alcohol and some old sci-fi is maybe the very best way to wrap up a Thursday.

"Alright, I'm only doing this because I know how much neck pain can fuck up a perfectly good Friday." I grab a pillow from my chair and set it next to me for a moment. Figuring it's worth one more shot, I try to rouse her again.

"Ashley?"

She stirs for a moment, but only long enough to shift her position from leaning on the arm of the couch to curling up on the cushions and resting her head on the pillow next to my left leg.

"That works too."

I sit quietly for awhile longer, watching The Twilight Zone reruns. One more glass turns into two. Ashley shifts a few times, but not much. She mumbles in her sleep and moves her hand, occasionally grazing my leg. I try to ignore how awkward it would be if she was awake.

Before long, the bottle of wine is gone, The Twilight Zone is almost over, and I can feel myself nodding off. Attempting to shake the drowsiness off, I stand up from the couch and stretch a little. Ashley sprawls out a little further without waking up.

I move to the bathroom and brush my teeth, then decide it's probably time to hit the hay.

"Goodnight, Ashley."

xxxxxx

It's been at least an hour. It must've been. At least.

I'm lying on my bed. Awake. Staring at the damned ceiling. My TV is on the fritz and I can't watch a damned thing while I try to fall asleep. So here I am, at 2:30 a.m., staring at the ceiling and trying to get some sleep.

That's it. I can't watch TV in bed, so Ill take my bed to the TV. Well, the other TV. I'll go in the living room.

I get up, grab my sleeping bag from under my bed, and trapse into the living room. Surely if Ashley slept all the way through Twilight Zone she can sleep through a bit of something else. I flip on the TV. SyFy's a bust at this hour; all infomercials. I give USA a shot.

Perfect.

Covert Affairs marathon.

I'll write a letter of appreciation to USA tomorrow while I pretend to get my work done.

I move the coffee table and roll out the sleeping bag next to the couch while keeping my eyes on the TV. Ashley isn't a snorer, which is a point I'll definitely put in the "win" column for her.

I grab my pillow from my bedroom and settle down into my sleeping bag. As Piper Perabo gets herself out of one relatively unrealistic jam after another, I feel my eyelids start to get heavy. I hear Ashley shift slightly and her right arm falls off the edge of the cushions. Her fingers graze my right shoulder blade and come to rest with her knuckles just barely making contact with my upper arm. I chance a quick look to see if she's still asleep.

She is.

Maybe it's the alcohol (let's be honest, it's probably the alcohol) but I don't move. Her hand twitches a bit as I nod off but it never moves much. So, neither do I.

xx

A/N: As always, thanks so much for reading, and you know what to do with the feedback. Much appreciated! Happy New Year!


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